I dropped my hoe and ran into the house and started to write this poem, 'End of Summer.’ It began as a celebration of wild geese. Eventually the geese flew out of the poem, but I like to think they left behind the sound of their beating wings.

Certainly the modern poets I cherish most are disturbing spirits; they do not come to coo.

In every house of marriage there's room for an interpreter.

I want to write poems that are natural, luminous, deep, spare. I dream of an art so transparent that you can look through and see the world.

Deftly they opened the brain of a child, and it was full of flying dreams.

The poem comes in the form of a blessing, like rapture breaking on the mind.

A longing for the dance stirs in the buried life.